Читать книгу Bone Black - Carol Rose GoldenEagle - Страница 12

“It is almost ready, my love,” Lord announces as he enters the farmhouse, just as Wren is getting ready to take her pie out of the oven. Lord has been working on a new project, creating an outdoor kiln for Wren when she works on her pottery during the summer months. The structure resembles a spacious igloo, with an electric kiln tucked inside.

Several months earlier, Lord had converted the garage into a pottery studio, including an area for display. He didn’t like the idea of Wren driving to town to fire her work at the art centre, especially during the winter months when road conditions were often miserable. The renovation was a first anniversary gift. He had held Wren’s hand and put a bandana over her eyes as he guided her to the new kiln. He’d made sure to install an oversized picture window in the studio with a view of the creek and the meadow protected by surrounding hills.

“Everything all set for Raven’s visit?” Lord asks.

“Almost, though when you’re done out there I wouldn’t mind taking a walk. We need to find some proper sticks we can carve for a wiener roast. Raven and I have been roasting meat on a stick ever since I can remember.” Wren has been smiling non-stop the past few days.

“Happy to,” he replies.

Lord goes to the kitchen sink to wash his dirt-caked hands, a result of the physical work he’s been doing outside. As always, he uses the nail brush to scrub the grime that’s collected under his fingernails. Wren has always been struck by her husband’s fervent hygiene habits. After wiping his hands dry on a tea towel, Lord hugs his wife and tells her he loves her. “Kisakihitin, you beautiful woman.” He’s learning words in Cree and uses them whenever the moment presents itself. He returns to discussion about Wren’s new kiln, explaining the cement has almost dried—he’s now just waiting for a delivery of wood.

Wren sees the new outdoor kiln as a herald of new beginnings, new traditions and new stories in the rich history of the farmhouse. She’s always felt like the farmhouse was like a warm and comfortable quilt, rich in colour and memory. As she unpacks a new clump of clay, her mind wanders to places of the past.

The farmhouse is an old Eaton’s catalogue design. It’s been in the family since the 1920s, nestled in among a range of buttes and coulees that minimize the persistent Saskatchewan wind. The land is well-treed and a creek runs through the property. The creek empties into the big lake, which is close enough to walk to and enjoy a short, scenic hike. The lake is even closer if you ride a bike. On any given day, a family of deer wander by the property, usually gathering around the apple and pear trees Wren’s grandfather planted years ago.

It’s the perfect place to dream and raise a family, where Wren and Raven spent so much of their childhood. It’s where their mother was raised. Wren remembers the stories she told them. Some of these memories are vague, because their mother left the family when the twins were so young. But so precious for the same reason.

“Your grandfather was a section worker for the rail line,” Wren can still hear her mom’s voice say. “The train used to run alongside the lake in the valley back then.” Today, the rail line is a scenic bike path. “But because your granddad worked for cp, he was given a discount on shipping fees. Piece by piece, materials arrived on that train, and this home is what he built.”

Wren remembers another story her mother told of how her grandparents met.

“She was just a young girl, out picking berries in Kinookimaw.”

Kinookimaw is the Cree word for long lake. It’s a place where so many love stories begin. An area where generations of First Nations peoples gathered and set up teepees. A combination of hills, valley and meadow. The landscape is stunning. Everything anyone might need grows in Kinookimaw: wild mushrooms and berries for harvest, roots and barks for medicines. No need for a drugstore here; the land provides.

When settlers came, they felt entitled to their newfound bounty and claimed the land that had sustained Kohkum’s family. Abundant stock from the lake was overfished and their numbers dwindled. The animals that were hunted disappeared. Slowly, their way of life disappeared too, replaced by heavy steel ties that later became the rail line, changing the pace of what once was a quiet valley.

But those ties are how the family came to be—how Wren’s kohkum met her granddad and how two cultures came together. Theirs was a legacy that began with creosote, sweat, hard work and saskatoon berries. As the story goes, Kohkum was completely focused on picking the plump fruit at the top of a bush. That’s why she was startled when she heard a male voice ask, “What are you doing?” She hadn’t heard the man’s footsteps approaching and was immediately struck by the handsome features of his white face, blue eyes and welcoming smile. Kohkum replied that she was gathering saskatoon berries to prepare for a feast.

Wren squishes the hard clay through her fingers and once again hears her mother’s voice in her mind. “Your granddad admired Kohkum’s devotion to the land. He fell in love with the sparkle in her eyes. The same sparkle you have,” Wren’s mother would remark. “It didn’t take long before the spot where they first met became their usual meeting place—the point where land meets water, across the shore from where the little arm of land meets the lake. That’s where your granddad and your kohkum fell in love.”

Interracial relationships were not common back then, and often not condoned. Maybe that’s the reason Wren’s granddad decided to build the family farmhouse just outside of town, though still close enough for a determined walk or a short car ride.

As Wren looks out at the land from her studio’s picture window, she feels happiness and gratitude that her childhood memories here will be shared by another generation. She pats her belly and vows to go out and make a tobacco offering to the land. She will do her best to say it in Cree—Kohkum always told her that the trees want to be addressed in the old language.

Wren also vows that she won’t tell Lord about the baby, not until the first trimester has passed. Babies go away sometimes, she knows this.